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EXCLUSIVE – The Deeply-Depressed Child Abuse Victim, His Big-Titted Best Mate, A Corrupt Former Ipswich Mayor, The New Farm Clinic and Me – A Short Vignette About How Paul Pisasale Spun a Yarn, Pulled the Wool Over a Magistrate’s Eyes and Escaped a Long Wait For Trial Spent in a Remand Centre Prison Cell (First Published 17 August 2017)

In late June of this year former Ipswich mayor Paul Pisasale put on a circus performance held a media conference from a ‘mental health facility’, dressed in a gown that looked like it had come thrown in with the tariff from a suite at Trump Towers.

The ‘mental health facility’ was Brisbane’s inner city New Farm Clinic (NFC), a private mental health inpatient/outpatient mini-hospital owned and operated by Ramsay Health Care, and the long time favored bolt hole of famous f*ck-ups who find themselves in the sh*t and want to duck, weave and hide, and stall for time.

At the same time that he was feeding the chooks in New Farm our gown-wearing man about town Pisasale was stumbling around in front of the cameras while on bail on charges of extortion, and was due to reappear in the Brisbane Magistrates Court for a further mention of the charges on the 17th of July. He duly did so and the case against him was remanded for a further mention in September.

Fast forward a few weeks after that and now it’s Wednesday the 2nd of August and I’m in the NFC too, but unlike the conman who’s Taking the Pisa out of us all I’m not swanning around the hotel-like hospital festooned in flannel like a befuddled fool and instead I’m sporting a visitors badge and carrying a secreted packet of smokes that I’ll be slipping the bloke I’m there visiting as soon as hubby kisses him goodbye and f*cks off home to catch the start of My Kitchen Rules..

The reason I’m there in first place rather than sitting at home pulling over porn is that some halfwit of a head-shrinker had put the missus’s best mate,- who was seeking help to deal with the residual slow-burn problems that are prevalent among the community of child-sex abuse victims raped when they were ten – through a series of sessions of self-trauma therapy, which essentially involves making a head-f*cked victim relive the event or events that caused their trauma.

And of course as you’d expect to happen when some dickhead of a doctor cons a patient with an already shaky psyche into reliving the joy of having a 37 year old teacher with bile-inducing B.O sinking his lube-less dick into the patient’s arse, the Bride’s poor bastard of a best mate had a breakdown and had to be hospitalised, and because he was lucky enough to hold private health insurance the Bride’s mate been able to secure a bed in the NFC, the ducks nuts of BrisVegas nuthouses.

Naturally the first thing I asked the missus’s mate after slipping him the ciggies and inquiring after his health was ‘Have you seen that c*nt Paul Pisasale since you’ve been in here? Do you know what room number he’s in?’,

I was most disappointed in his reply though I have to say, for while the Bride’s bestie kicked off by informing me that yes he had met Mr Taking the Pisa and that they’d spent some time together talking about their shared interests in art and investment properties, he then went on to add that it was his melancholic duty to inform me that the Pisasale pidgeon had flown the coop some weeks ago, and that the Mayor with the Elvis complex had left the building at that time and hadn’t been seen since.

Now working on the principle of it taking one to know one, and realising that I was sitting in the lounge of a loony bin, I decided I’d need to double check the Bride’s best mate’s story before I took it as gospel, and so knowing that the clinical staff would have had the words ‘Privacy Act’ tattooed onto their cortex’s, I discreetly slipped up to the servery counter and started charming the sweetheart behind the bain-marie.

Inevitably within mere minutes I had the ladel-wielding lovely spellbound, and the moment I confirmed it by giving her left bouncer a sneaky tweak and copping a lusty smile instead of a straight left hook I popped the question.

“Have you seen that Taking the Pisa c*nt around here anywhere sweetheart”.

“He was here, but he left a couple of weeks ago” was her reply, and she added the observation that “He was a queer sort of bird that one, he just didn’t seem quite as mad as the other punters, if you know what I mean”.

I knew what she meant alright, but checked it out for a third time by chatting up one of the contract cleaners, a 21-year-old Nepali bird with a body like Bridget Bardot and a fair splash of the Neve Campbell in her eyes, and putting the question to her too while inspecting I was inspecting her uniform for stains and watching her weave magic with a cake of Coal Tar Soap in the staff shower, and the answer she gave in between moans was identical: Taking the Pisa had pissed off.

A couple of days later I picked up the paper to peruse over a somewhat earlier than usual midday breakfast and blow me down with flying pigs feather this is what I found before my bleary half-opened pork pies:

WTF?

Hold the phone!

How could Pisasale be ‘remaining’ in a mental health facility when he wasn’t even there just six days before? What of new scam was this compulsive crook pulling now?

A quick bit of Googling and it all became clear.

The day after I’d visited the Bride’s best mate in the NFC and searched high and low for Taking the Pisa and found him nowhere to be seen he’d been served with a summons on fresh charges, perverting the course of justice this time.

No-one including the Police or the CCC have ever said where Taking the Pisa was when they handed the invite he couldn’t refuse to attend court the next week, and that’s a bit odd, but it seems obvious that when he opened the wherever it was door and discovered the sheriff’s summons bearing deputy on the landing the rat cunning dodger from the ‘Swich must have twigged immediately that the CCC had been tapping his phone and taping his calls, which meant that his and their near two decade protection racket was over, and realised that he had a rather somewhat bigger than huge problem.

A problem that he urgently needed some time and some uninterrupted thinking space to develop a strategy to escape the noose by coming up with at least a half- plausible story that might neutralise the no doubt highly damning and extremely damaging recordings made by his one time good friends.

So knowing that swindles worked once and undetected usually work twice Taking the Pisa did just as he had done before and took the dive.

He checked himself back into the New Farm Clinic, and he could not in a million years have been there more than six days before his laywers rocked up to court and made the carefully crafted totally bogus but simultaneously legally precise and factually correct submission about their conman’s health, place of residence and short-term future that day that is reported on in the Brisbane Times article excerpted above.

See the lawyers never actually said that Taking the Pisa had been in the New Farm Clinic the whole time since June when he first appeared in court, they just gave the decided and deliberately invoked impression that he had.

The lawyers actual words were that Taking the Pisa ‘remained in a mental health facility’, and that he wasn’t ‘in a fit state to be questioned by authorities’, and that his treating psycho’s ‘couldn’t give an estimate of when he would be fit to leave’ the New Farm Clinic.

Here are the obvious questions that anyone with an analytical brain and radar for bullshit and bullshit artists would have asked after they read Taking the Pisa’s lawyers submissions:

Here’s one.

“Mr Taking the Pisa remains in a facility does he? When did the Apollinaire ‘days go by, I remain’ clock start Sunshine? When was the c*nt most recently admitted? Give us a date, a receipt and a letter from the head quack in charge of the joint.”

Here’s another.

“How come your c*nt of a client’s not in a fit state to be interviewed? Is Taking the Pisa pissed out of his head on someone else’s grog or something? Is he all pilled up? Has the bugger been drumming the beat to the Colombian Marching Band theme song again? Is he bunging on the Vincent ‘the Chin’ Gigante (below) again? Or is it something altogether totally different? Please explain, and support your explanation with signed and affirmed documentary evidence.”

And here’s a third.

“I see that the quacks are saying they can’t even take a stab in the dark at when they might give Taking the Pisa the all clear to piss off from the clinic. Tell me, Is the reason for that because the quacks haven’t actually seen him? You know, because the c*nt’s only just checked in and readmitted, and for whatever reason you’ve explained in response to my second question above he’s in an unfit state to be interviewed or examined, so no medical practitioner has actually had the opportunity to properly assess the prick and sketch out a prognosis?”

They’re pretty obvious questions if you take my first hand evidence as the gospel truth that it is and think about it, particularly if you work from the premise that a high-profile public figure who’s been slapped with separate and discretely different charges of extortion and perverting justice’s course after earlier been pinched at an airport with 50 large bearing residue traces of powdered narcotics in his pocket might just be the sort of character who’d outslip an eel, and exercise due caution.

Do you reckon anyone at Taking the Pisa’s court hearing did other than his own lawyer?

Nup.

They might be well versed in drafting pleadings in a poncey, seventeenth-century structured form these private school boys who hang around inns and bars, and no doubt the more highly skilled ones have an outstanding knowledge and understanding of precedent and statute law, but let’s call spades spades and shovels shovels and agree all that shit is just totally derivative, and although admittedly the level is higher it’s really not much more of a skill than learning your times table by rote.

What I’m saying is that most of retards frocking in robes aren’t anywhere near as f*cking smart as they give the impression they are, and there is hardly a bloke or bird among them who could think outside the box while on their feet even if an Eastern Brown bit ’em on the arse to help on their way.

There is one though.

Taking the Pisa’s lawyer who drafted the proceedings.

That bloke can think and act quick and do it damn well, don’t you worry about that.

But you wouldn’t pay two cents for the rest of them.

One big-shot criminal defence lawyer, and one very smart c*nt

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